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I spent years writing a book about my life. Thousands of words of memory, dug up and arranged and revised until I could recite whole scenes from it. I still could not read some of it without my body reacting. That is why I started EMDR. And once I did, my brain began handing me things I had not thought about in decades. I came to it after a long stretch with a therapist I could not connect with. She canceled about as often as we met, and when we did meet, she often let me out

It has been a couple of weeks since I wrote here. Life has been full in mostly good ways: painting, working, preparing for some travel, navigating oil changes and tire crises, and slowly shifting from the enormous task of writing a book to the entirely different one of bringing it into the world. So, an actual update: Latter-day Psychosis is planned for release on November 17, 2026. Even typing that feels strange. For years, this book existed as fragments. Memories, old journ

Yesterday I turned 36, quietly. The house was still, the dogs were nearby, and the soft hum of ordinary life moved around me. Lance was away playing a wedding, and the day unfolded slowly. I watched some Housewives, of course. I rested. I moved from room to room without needing to make the day look impressive from the outside. For my birthday, Lance gifted me a spa day. I let myself be cared for. I let someone else work the tension from my shoulders, my neck, my tired body. I

I started the day with morning pages and a meditation, trying to settle my nervous system before the high-stakes vulnerability of the afternoon. I bought clinical-strength deodorant. I chose an outfit specifically designed to hide sweat. I was prepared to read. I was prepared for the nerve. When I arrived at Wolverine Farm, the fear was simple: don’t be awkward. But the room was soft around the edges, a supportive little bubble. It was full of creative women using their voice

The photo is grainy, the colors slightly blown out by a flash that caught us mid-laugh. There we are, our smiles so big they’re swallowing our eyes. It’s that uninhibited childhood joy. My brother is in his Flash shirt. I am in silky Avon jammies, the kind that felt like luxury against the static of the carpet. We are cross-legged, action figures in hand, about to build a world. To the right, the heavy, vinyl slope of a waterbed anchors the room. It was the early 90s; we hadn

The air in the Salt Lake Valley has a specific weight to it: dry, sage-scented, and heavy with the shadow of the Wasatch Front. As a child, those mountains weren't just geography; they were the walls of our world. They stood as silent, granite witnesses to every Sunday drive and every testimony shared. I remember the distinct, itchy ritual of those mornings: the smell of extra-hold hairspray in the foyer, the rhythmic thump of a hymn book hitting a padded pew, and the sight o

My husband and I have two mini dachshunds. Their names are Richard and Rooster. Yes, we did that on purpose. It was my husband’s idea, which is something I say both to give credit where it’s due and to maintain a thin layer of plausible deniability at the park. Richard is almost ten years old. He is a lap dog and a seasoned athlete, which sounds like a contradiction until you’ve watched a twelve-pound tube of muscle and ego lead you up a twelve-mile trail without breaking a s

I had been bleeding for nearly a week — the low-grade, inconvenient kind that serves as a constant, pulsing reminder that something isn’t right. My Mirena removal two weeks prior had been unsuccessful. My cervix, apparently, had opinions. I went home with the IUD still in, sore and a little defeated, and spent the next several days doing the math on whether my pain was "normal" or whether I should be worried. A week of bleeding, followed by my period, and now I was signed up

When I was young, I was ambitious in that uncomplicated way children are, before the world teaches them caution. I had big dreams and chased them without fear. Then came the hardest years, my dark night of the soul. Religious loss. Psychosis. A stretch of drinking that felt, at the time, like the only way to survive the weather of my own mind. By the time I found sobriety, I had stopped reaching. I wanted a life that was small and quiet: a sanctuary of coffee, dogs, and a g

I spent the afternoon at the playground pretending to be a super kitty, and the early evening in my backyard drinking a “sparkle rainbow” brew out of a tiny teacup. But in the back of my mind, while a child narrated her own adventures, Taylor Frankie Paul was living completely rent-free. I couldn’t stop circling the news. The Bachelorette was canceled today, suddenly, just days before the premiere. A video surfaced that I really wish I could unsee. It shows Taylor throwing ch

The house was finally quiet, a sharp contrast to the week that had just folded behind me. Six days, three families, five children, and a whirlwind of noise that left little room for the quiet, private world of a book that wasn’t quite ready to leave me. But now it was Saturday night. Lance was out at a gig, the echoes of the week’s chaos had settled into the floorboards, and I was alone with the glowing rectangular ghost of my manuscript. I found myself tending to it with an

It was 2005. Everyone had a favorite contestant on America’s Next Top Model. Girls quoted judges at lunch tables. Makeovers felt like destiny. Elimination night felt like fate. The show promised that one girl would be chosen. I was already trying to be. ⸻ At fifteen, I flew to Las Vegas for Model Search America. Rolling suitcases. Garment bags. Girls in too-high heels practicing their walks in hotel hallways. Mothers pretending not to be nervous. We were there to be assessed.

Friday night. Eleven-hour workday. Brain fried. I change into sweatpants, fill up my water, and queue up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Years ago, I would’ve called this my “guilty pleasure.” I don’t anymore. There’s no guilt. Just pleasure. And if I’m being honest, it’s a little field research. Because this isn’t mindless consumption. It’s observation. It’s pattern recognition. It’s cultural study in sequins and lip filler. And when it comes to Utah reality TV? It’s p

It’s Friday at 4 p.m. I’m on hour eight of an eleven-hour day. The kiddo is asleep on the floor, one arm flung overhead, one stuffy tucked under. Sunlight moves slowly across the rug. The house holds that mid-afternoon stillness. In that quiet, I can feel both parts of my life, including the creative work humming beneath the surface, waiting for its window. The desk. The canvas. The sentence half-formed in my notes app. Creative work hums alongside the daily rhythms of caregi

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember — long enough to know that a voice isn’t something you announce. It’s something you learn how to listen for. Years ago, I wrote online with the urgency of someone trying to catch herself mid-fall. I believed honesty meant immediacy, that everything had to be said before it disappeared. Time taught me otherwise. Some truths need to sit, to breathe, to wait until they know what shape they want to take. This space is not an outpour

I was nervous — nervous to put my heart and soul on the walls, nervous to invite people to step into my therapeutic practice, to take time out of their days and look at my guts in color and form. The show came together quickly, though it had been floating in my dream-space for years. In reality, I had about six weeks to pull it all off. It all started when my friend — the mother of two sweet kids I babysit — hosted a community event at the Center for Creativity in the Histori